


The Winchesters and the Horseman

by PaulatheCat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Rated T for language, Set some time after Season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 08:20:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaulatheCat/pseuds/PaulatheCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Headless Horseman is terrorizing Sleepy Hallow... Seriously? WTH!? Commission piece for Fall</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Prologue

The cawing crows of autumn heralded the last rays of twilight as night approached. The swirls of grey fog diffused the waning light, creating a halo around dark trees and kissing the black and lonely asphalt of the meandering bucolic two-lane road. The quiet countryside was disturbed by the roaring sound of an engine. The sleek, black beast sped through the rustic scene causing a murder of crows to take flight in its wake, protesting the disturbance.

Sam looked worried. He kept his hazel eyes locked through the rear window. His brother was driving like a mad man and Sam could only hold on. The whine of the Impala became high-pitched and Sam noticed that Dean pulled back on the accelerator.

"Why are you slowing down?" Sam nearly screamed at Dean.

Dean grimaced as he looked at the dash, noticing the needle slipping into the red at over 6000rpms.

"Sam, she can handle a lot but I'd rather she didn't drop an engine while we're fleeing for our lives." Dean turned his attention back to the road, only glancing occasionally into the rear-view mirror. "How close?"

Sam turned back around to look out the back window. His eyes grew wider. "Real close. Faster would be better, Dean." His voice was strident and Dean was feeling the fear as well.

They were fast running out of asphalt and Sam saw his brother clench his jaw and narrow his eyes. "Hold on." He said. Sam gripped the armrest on the door and faced forward, only now noticing what Dean planned to do.

_Oh, shit._ Sam cursed under his breath. He braced for the turn, looking to his brother to determine which direction they would go. _I hope we don't roll_ , Sam thought. _That would end this chase real fricken fast._

The Impala began to slow down and Dean tightened his grip on the steering wheel with whitened knuckles. Sam pushed his body back into the seat, tensing his legs against the floorboard in anticipation. His whole body was stiffened. Dean began the turn right before the crossroad. The brothers leaned into the turn as far as they could and were able to feel the car tilt slightly before landing back onto four wheels again. Dean gunned the car into fishtailing acceleration. They could hear an inhuman squeal that made their blood run cold. Dean floored the gas pedal to the ground and the car barreled toward one of the many wood covered bridges that were found all over the New England country-side. Sam looked behind them to see that they had not lost the giant black horse and its rider. Smoke and flames were left behind as the Horseman chased them down.

"Un-be-fuckin-lievable." Dean cried with a terse voice as he glanced briefly into the mirror. He hunched his shoulders as he started through the bridge. It took all of his strength to keep the Impala threading the needle at this speed through the narrow opening and on the rickety wooden slats. When they emerged through the bridge, Dean was feeling the pain of having been tensed for so long and having adrenaline pumping through him. He chanced a glance in the mirror.

He saw black smoke swirling in a vortex and the yellow-orange tinge of fire at the mouth of the bridge, but no Horseman.


	2. Sunday, October 29, 2006

Crowds of people had been lining the street during the daylight and the weather was perfect. There had been yuppies in khaki slacks and flamboyant button-up shirts, young parents with children with face paint and caramel apples running from store front to store front collecting candy from shop owners, and older couples held hands or clutched over-large bags containing purchases. There are signs and flyers everywhere announcing the "Sleepy Hollow's Washington Irving Festival".

There was music at the historic music hall, carnival rides and street venders, arts and crafts displayed at the park near the center of town, and an enactment of the story for which the town was named was scheduled at sundown a couple hours away. A new museum for the author held its opening ceremony earlier in the day. Among the museums exhibits were artifacts of Irving's life, documents under his most well-known name as well as several under other pen-names, historical objects from times depicted in his stories, including wax renditions of Ichabod Crane and the nefarious horseman and a replica of Irving's study, complete with desk chair and bookshelves lined with books by authors said to have influenced Irving's work.

The day is drawing to a close and, if anything, there are more people roaming the street than there had been at the peak of the day. The streets surrounding the center of town had been closed to allow for the pedestrians to walk safely and to accommodate the crowd showing up for the narrated enactment of the "Legend of Sleepy Hollow".

The streets on the perimeter of the festivities were lined with shiny new sports utility vehicles and foreign sports cars—testimony to the affluence of the area and the types of people who would patronize a celebration of a historical figure scheduled on a day when most people went to bed earlier in order rise for work the next day. Among the symbols of the upper middle class is the gleaming black body of a 1960's classic four-door sedan—a Rottweiler among Poodles; the Impala is no less impressive for having been parked between new 2006 bright red BMW Z4 convertible and a dusty blue Lexus SUV.

The restaurant in front of which the cars are parked is otherwise unremarkable but for the filigree font on the carved wooden sign over the door frame proclaiming the establishment of JP Doyle's Restaurant and Public House. The restaurant was packed full and the patrons were loud and annoying.

Dean didn't care if the Giants won or lost, but nearly all the patrons wore the blue and white jerseys of the home team—Manning, Strahan and Barber among the favorites. Why did he care if they were winning… by a lot? Every time Barber got the ball, the place went mad. Dean cringed as yet another wave of cheers deafened him. They seemed to get louder as the night progressed. Sam looked out the window again and grimaced.

"I think there are more people out there now than there was earlier, Dean." Sam remarked.

Dean nodded and took a long pull from the mug of amber-colored beer, condensation beading on the glass dripping down the sides as he placed it back on the coaster. He wasn't paying that much attention to what was going on outside any more than to the football game playing out on four television screens inside. Instead, he made eye contact with a cluster of young women gathered at the far side of the bar, away from the screeching sports fans. The women frequently sent glances and winks to the older Winchester brother—all smiles and coquettish flirtation. Sam turned his head to look over his shoulder at what had caught his brother's attention. He rolled his eyes and slapped the table directly in front of his brother to snap his attention back to the job at hand.

"Can you get your mind out of your pants for a few minutes, Dean? We're working a case!"

Dean pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes. "Right. What d'ya got?"

Sam sighed and pulled a manila file folder from his computer bag.

"A death each night," he began, "M.E. estimates each guy died around midnight. There are ten vics and there doesn't seems to be much connecting them… you know, except the obvious."

Sam waved his hand in demonstration over the gruesome pictures of the mutilated corpses. Dean smirked at his brother as he went through each of the pictures.

"Man, I guess they really lost their heads." Dean's smiled faltered as Sam replied with a grimace and looked unimpressed with Dean's attempt at humor.

Sam decided ignoring the macabre joke was the most effective way to demonstrate his opinion.

"Any way," Sam resumed, "The official cause of death is decapitation with edge weapon."

Dean coughed and sobered his expression as he went through the coroner's reports.

"Dude. You're kidding me?" Dean said. His face brightened.

Sam tilted his head as he regarded Dean. "What?"

Dean stared, blinking in disbelief at his brother. "We're in Sleepy Hollow, New York, Sam." Dean punctuated his point with the papers in his hands.

Sam huffed out a loud and exasperated breath as he shifted the papers and pictures back into the folder. "Yeah," he said, "But, this isn't exactly the 1700's, Dean. Anyway, Washington Irving's story is just that… a story. It's not real."

Dean was incredulous. "But, Sam! Look at the evidence! It's frickin' October. It's  _Sleepy Hollow_! Ten guys… lost their _heads_! It's a classic!"

Sam lifted his hand to his face and rubbed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "No, Dean." His voice was as pinched as his face and he sounded not at all in the mood to entertain his brother's theories.

Dean placed his hands, palm down, on the dark wooden table of the booth. "What then? Hm?"

Dean's green eyes were unrelenting. Sam couldn't think of another alternative and, in fact, had thought of the legend when he began compiling the file. Dean leaned back in the vinyl seat cushion with a self-satisfied smile that reached his twinkling eyes. He folded his arms one over the other with his head tilted back against the dark green cushion. Sam covered his eyes with the palm of his hand. In the mean time, Dean returned his attention to the cluster of women, ignoring yet another raucous outburst from the Giants fans.

Later…

All over the neighborhood streets, the sound of cheers rang along with the laughter of teens and young adults as they loitered late into the night. There were a few jack-o-lanterns on front porches carved with the scary rictus in keeping with the season. Most homes were dressed in the trappings of All Hallow's Eve. Cardboard cutouts of witches and black cats were on windows and doors and scarecrows stood vigil in front yards, ineffective guardians against the pranks of children with several rolls of toilet paper. There was a blurry halo around the street lights and the temperature dropped thirty degrees from the daytime high. A grey haze was rolling across the streets and into the shadowed corners between houses. A white house with pale blue trim was illuminated and practically glowed with the warm hospitality indicated by the dozen or so cars parked in the driveway and on the street out front. The windows of the cars were all covered in the dew of late night mist.

The boisterous conversations and laughter poured out as the door opened spilling out party-goers. Jubilant good-byes and companionable taunts were exchanged as several couples climbed into waiting vehicles. Hugs and handshakes were exchanged as well as laughing promises to meet again for Sunday Night Football next week. A wave and smile exchanged as a couple began walking down the street glistening wet and strewn with damp brown and yellow leaves having fallen from the trees lining the sidewalks.

The dark-haired man, in a blue and white Manning jersey, held hands with a blonde woman in red and black of the Buccaneers as he pulled her in closer to him, arm wrapped around her shoulders. They walked together until the cross street and turned their path to the left, continuing home. The woman's face dropped as they walked through a particularly cold patch, shadowed due to broken street lamp and dimming adjacent lights. The man just nestled her closer to his side, sheltering her under his warm embrace, and she smiled up to him. They joked and he ribbed her for her team's epic loss at the superior sportsmanship of his own.

They slowed their progress when they heard the ringing of metal against the slick tarmac in a rhythmic cadence. The man craned his neck around to determine from whence the sound came. The woman, too, searched the darkness. They moved again, more quickly than before in their nervousness. They continued to scan the area for the source of the sound, which also began to speed up. A bank of fog began to roll more dense and obscured part of the street ahead of them. Their pace quickened as the sounds became closer to them and they were unable to find its cause. Soon, they were enveloped in the grey mass of the fog bank. They were unable to determine the direction of the ringing cadence but they knew it was closing in on them as it was becoming louder. At the woman's whimper, the man urged her to sprint with him in the direction of their home. They began to run until they grew closer to a large dark form arising from the mist. They slowed when they couldn't hear the ringing noise any longer. They remained still and listened, looking in all the directions. Then, they heard it. Directly in front of them, the ringing sound of the metal clip, clip, clip- steady and slow… very near to them as the dark form became larger, closer and more threatening. The man pulled the woman's blonde face to his and his wide brown eyes met hers as he whispered, "Run!"

She sprinted toward the nearest home with its dark front porch and began hammering on the door. The man ran down the street, past the looming figure in the swirling mist. The ringing of metal clip, clippety, clip, chased him, lighting the white cloud wall with orange and yellow. The woman, crying on some strangers' front steps, dropped to her knees as she heard the terrified voice echo, cut off mid scream, and the phantom squeal of a horse.


	3. Monday, October 30, 2006

The room was dark and quiet but for the soft inhalations of a sleeper in one of the two beds. A Mac notebook open to a search window was sitting on a lone table surrounded by two wooden chairs. The only other illumination the thin sliver of white bleeding under the blackout drapes on the window. The form of the sleeper sprawled on his stomach fully clothed, his mouth agape as his head was nestled in a thin pillow. The man's booted feet hung over the foot of the bed. There were two green duffle bags stuffed with clothing on the floor next to each bed and two black suits with two white button-up dress shirts on hangers in the closet space near the counter. A small coffee maker sat at the end. Near the sink, there was a closed door to the bathroom. Over the counter, the length of the short wall, was mounted a large mirror that reflected the darkened room facing the door and window to the outside world.

The door opened filling the room with morning light and a tall man walked in. He was holding white paper bags in one hand and a drink holder with Styrofoam hot beverage cups in the other. His fumbling with the key to the door with the bag laden hand disturbed the sleeper who opened his bleary sleep-encrusted eyes to regard him with a grumpy scowl.

"What time is it?" The sleeper questioned with a hoarse voice as he rubbed his eyes and pushed himself off the bed to a sitting position.

Sam regarded his brother with a smile and placed the drinks on the table next to the computer. He turned his wrist to look at his watch. "It's nine. Do you wanna shower first, or do you want news?"

Dean became more alert, his eyes widening as he stood and crossed the room. He took one of the drinks and opened the lid to look inside. Black coffee. He sniffed it before replacing the lid and taking a sip. He sank into one of the chairs as Sam went to the windows to pull back the drapes, leaving the sheer covers in place for some privacy. He turned to look at Dean. Dean motioned with his hand to indicate his brother should tell him what he knew.

Sam took a deep breath and walked to the computer, sitting in the other chair. "Well, there was another attack last night. This time, there was a witness." Sam punched some keys and turned the screen to face his brother.

There, on the screen, was a blonde woman in her mid-thirties with brown eyes. "Her name is Melinda Boyle and she lives in Tarrytown near the border of Sleepy Hollow. She and her boyfriend were walking home when they were attacked. She says their attacker was the headless horseman."

"Where is she now?" Dean asked as he took another sip of from the cup.

Sam shook his head and pulled the computer back towards him. "We might need to be a little creative, Dean. She was hospitalized last night when they came to get her. She is admitted to the MHA in Tarrytown."

"How locked down is she?" Dean asked with absent care as he opened the paper bag to retrieve a danish.

Sam shrugged and rose. "Well, they're watching her pretty closely. She was pretty messed up when they found her. They have her on a 72 hour psych hold."

Dean shrugged and began eating the pastry. "What's wrong with the normal gig?" He asked with a mouth full of food.

Sam pulled a face at Dean's manners, but still responded. "She requires a soft touch, Dean. If we go into see her flashing FBI or State Police, she is likely to freak more than she already has."

Dean nodded as he swallowed the last of his Danish and drank more of his coffee before he rose from his place. He walked to the bathroom to shower. Less than thirty minutes later, both men were dressed and ready to go.

At the hospital, Dean dressed in the blue coveralls of an orderly and Sam was dressed in a suit with a white lab coat over his dress shirt and a badge indicating he was a mental health professional. They gained access to most areas of the hospital by swiping the stolen badge of a legitimate doctor over the keyless entry pads.

Dean stayed outside the room while Sam went inside to interview Melinda Boyles.

The blonde haired, fair skinned woman sat on the edge of her hospital bed rocking with her arms clutched around her middle. It was clear that the trauma was making it difficult for her to rest. The purple smudges under and around her eyes made her appear haggard and her skin was nearly translucent; she was so pale. It was difficult to believe she had only been admitted twelve hours ago.

"Melinda," Sam began with a soft and empathetic voice. He was sitting in a chair nearby but with enough distance to allow her space to feel secure with him. "I need to ask you about last night."

Melinda looked at him with narrowed eyes and a sneer on her mouth. "I'm tired of repeating myself." She exclaimed with a ragged breath. "I know that it was him. It was the horseman. I'm not crazy. We heard the hooves." Melinda's brown eyes became wide. She was working herself up into frenzy. Sam cast about for a way to calm her. It wouldn't do for her to completely lose it with him in there. He didn't know how much he could explain his presence in her room.

"Okay. Okay." Sam soothed with a near whisper.

She still looked at him with wild eyes, but she wasn't rocking as violently. She began to slow herself down and her voice came out softer. "I was goin' to marry him." She whimpered. "We were going to tell my mom and dad over Thanksgiving."

Sam nodded and remained quiet for a moment. She continued without prompting.

"We heard the hooves on the street." Her voice was thin and tight. "We ran but…" She stopped rocking and her wide eyes stared into the wall, as though the memories of the night played out before her. Her breathing became raspy and shallow. "He told me to run and he went the other way… He led the horseman off, away from me." She turned to look at Sam.

Her eyes lacked any kind of sanity. She had completely lost who she was, where and when she was. Sam almost despaired that she may, indeed, be mad. She sucked in a deep breath and clenched her eyes shut.

"I didn't see him." She thrashed her head from side to side. "I didn't see him. He was hidden in the fog. But we heard the horse. We heard his hooves on the street. He was following us. We heard him. We heard the hooves…"

Sam reached out to touch her knee. It seemed to steady her and she listed closer to him. She kept her eyes sealed shut and her lips thinned. She began to rock again.

"Tell me anything you did see, Melinda. It could help. Anything at all will help." Sam whispered.

Her eyes flew open and she stared, wide-eyed at Sam. She stood up in front of him. Her skin began to turn pink, then red. "Nothing will ever help!" She screamed at him.

Sam stood and backed away from her. He didn't fear for his safety, but for being questioned by the legitimate hospital staff. "Okay." He placated. He looked at the door and saw his brother peering in through the narrow rectangular window. Sam held his hands in front of him with his palms facing her.

She lowered herself to the bed and began mumbling. She was saying incoherent fragments of ideas. Sam began to turn to the door to let himself out. She gasped at him. He looked over his shoulder at her.

"There was fire in the sky. There was a cold, cold fog and it swallowed them up." She looked at Sam with a lost, sad smile. "They never found him, did they? The fog swallowed them up." He shook his head at her, at the sadness and despair. He took a deep breath and left. He heard her rocking and mumbling as he left. "We heard his hooves. We heard him coming for us. We heard his hooves."

The two brothers returned to the Impala, walking without saying a word. When Sam sat in the passenger seat, he put his head in his hands. It was what Melinda said as they were leaving that attacked Sam's mind the most. Next month will be the anniversary and it struck him as an arrow through his heart.  _There was fire in the sky._  There was fire on the ceiling. Jessica.

Dean remained quiet as he slid into the car next to his brother. He didn't move to console him or ask what had transpired. He didn't even really look at Sam. He gripped his steering wheel and looked out the windshield, straight ahead and then took a deep breath. He looked at his brother. Just a quick glance as Sam pulled his head up to look out the side window at the street. Dean started the engine and pulled the car out of the parking lot.

They returned to the motel room to change. Sam was still in the bathroom and Dean flipped his phone over and over in his hand without looking at it. He was leaning his back against the headboard of the bed and crossed his legs on the cover. The bed was unmade and looked exactly as it had when they left that morning. He stilled his hands and glanced at the shut bathroom door. Sam had been in there for a while now.

"Sam?"

There was no answer. Dean knew he was still in there and that he was still alive because he could see the shadow of his feet under the door and hear the shuffling and sniffing.

"Sam." Dean said the word in a short, clipped tone—a demand instead of inquiry.

"I'm fine, Dean."

Dean scoffed but turned his attention back to his phone. "I know." He replied. Louder, he said, "I was just wondering if you wanted something to eat?"

Silence.

Dean sighed and flipped open his phone. He scrolled down the contacts list until… Dad. He closed the phone again after several moments. It was times like now he wished his Dad was still here. He missed having the assurance that Dad was out there… somewhere. Somehow, even when they were looking all over the country for the guy, even when he never answered his phone, just knowing he was "out there", helped. Sam needed someone who could understand what was going on in that mind of his. Dean didn't think he qualified, even though he was older than Sam when their mom died. It just wasn't the same.

Sam emerged finally from the bathroom and Dean rose from the bed. "Ready for grub?"

Sam smirked at his brother. Dean didn't miss the slightly puffy and red-rimmed eyes, but said nothing.

 


	4. Later the Same Day

"What is our next lead?" Dean asked.

They were sitting in the Horseman Diner. Dean thought it hilarious. Sam was apathetic. They had already ordered and they were left to discuss what information they had and what their next steps would be. Tomorrow was Halloween and neither brother cared for the celebration of the things that went bump in the night. It loses its appeal when you know the monsters truly exist.

"Well. We could go and check out the museum." Sam shrugged.

"As good a lead as any, I guess." Dean regarded his brother with careful consideration. His voice made light of what was happening and he sounded like he was back on board with the case. He certainly said all the right words and applied himself as was expected. He was off, though. He was shaken and upset and Dean could see it through the mask placed there to hide the pain. Dean knew all about masks.

The waitress brought their food and the conversation was tabled until they had eaten. Dean sunk his teeth into the Ultimate burger and fries. He had considered getting a pizza but saw another guy get the burger and it looked so good he just went ahead and said, "What he's having." Sam was eating steamed vegetables with pasta. Dean made a face when the waitress set it down. He shook his head at Sam in dismay. Sam grinned when he saw Dean's reaction, but began to eat with gusto.

Dean was actually gratified to see Sam returning to normal (somewhat) as they replayed years of diner eating give-and-take after ordering… it was the same old routine. Dean felt his heart lighten.

They decided to visit the museum after nightfall, but before midnight. They determined that it would give them the greatest access without prying eyes and they would be able to destroy an artifact if necessary to keep the horseman from returning. Dean asked, more than once, if it would work this way since the horseman never really existed. Sam really didn't have an answer to that question. They brought standard equipment just in case—EMF meter, salt and consecrated iron rounds for the sawed-off, silver bullets for the Colt 1911, and Dean's Bic.

Sam managed to disable the alarm system and pick the lock while Dean kept a look out for the watchman. They were inside using flashlights with tight spot beams to reduce outside notice of their activities. Dean carried his EMF as he looked at the new artifacts in the museum.

"Dean." Sam cried out to his brother in a soft but urgent tone.

Dean joined Sam as Sam was looking over a book he had discovered in the replica of Irving's workspace. The words on the spine were nonsense to Dean, but the book looked old… very old. The look on Sam's face as he scanned the pages worried the older Winchester.

"What is it?" Dean whispered.

Sam pressed his lips together and bundled the book in a curtain he pulled off from the exhibit. He jerked his head toward the entrance. They left, Sam resetting the alarm system as they went. Dean chuckled to himself but agreed when Sam mentioned that it wouldn't do to tip off the museum curators that they should look for something missing.

Back in the motel room, Sam continued his stern examination of the book. He wrote hasty notes on a legal pad and opened his laptop to the search engine. Dean looked on with exasperation at his brother's single-mindedness.

"Sam?" Dean said as he watched Sam consult the computer and then the book. He appeared to not have heard his brother. Dean walked to Sam's side and bent over to peer into his eyes. Sam made eye contact and pushed back from the table. He gestured to the book.

"It's a key." Sam said with animated hand movements and lit up eyes. _He's_ _having a full-on geekgasm_ , Dean thought.

"A key to what?" Dean asked.

Sam became so excited and he gestured wildly. "A key to other dimensions! As far as I can tell, there are portals all over the place and… I think I have this right, but… it seems that some places are just created." Something told Dean he wasn't going to like what Sam would tell him.

"What do you mean ' _created_ '?"

Sam stilled for moment and looked at Dean. Something in the tone of the question seemed to alert Sam to tread lightly. "Well," Sam began with less agitation, "I guess if someone wanted to, they could create a place where the… where Sleepy Hollow from the Legend is a real place! There would have to be a whole lot of 'faith' that it would happen and there's a spell…"

Dean looked dumbfounded. He just stared at his brother for long moments before the hoarse whisper escaped his lips. "What?"

Sam slumped back into his chair. Dean continued to stare at Sam and then to the book. He covered his eyes with his hand and swept it down his face.

"Why in the world would someone want to create the Headless Horseman?" Dean asked.

Sam shrugged. He typed into the search engine about the Legend. He wanted to read it since it had been a while since he had. He didn't think that Dean had actually read the thing, but had, instead relied on Disney to give him what he wanted to know.

"Does this mean witches?" Dean asked.

Sam considered the question. "Maybe… but, I sort of doubt it." Sam skewed up his face as he contemplated the evidence. "It's a spell, but it doesn't really have any of the witchy earmarks."

Dean mulled this over in his mind- A spell that didn't screech "WITCH" at the top of its lungs. It didn't seem to make any sense to him, but he was tired and his brain just wasn't working as it should.

Dean went and lay down on the bed. He crossed his arms across and in front of him as he tilted his head back on the headboard, his eyes closed and his breathing evened out. Sam continued research mode for a long time before finally shutting off all the lights and electronics to lie on his own bed


	5. Tuesday, October 31, 2006

The morning dawned bright and pleasant. Sam continued to sleep as Dean rose from his slumber. He walked into the bathroom to perform his morning ablutions before standing near Sam's bed to consider a course of action. Dean didn't know what time his brother had finally come to bed, so he decided to let the Sasquatch sleep. He left, taking the keys with him.

When he returned with coffee and pastries to start his morning, Dean found a grumpy Sam sitting at the table. Sam looked at Dean and Dean knew that look. It was the "what the f*#& have you done this time" look.

"What?" He asked.

"Where did you put it, Dean?" asked Sam. His voice was terse and his eyes narrowed in his 'most annoyed' way.

The question mark above Dean's head was in clear evidence as Sam continued to scrutinize his big brother.

"The book, Dean… where is the book?" Sam enunciated as if Dean was a two year old.

Dean was now, officially, irritated. He watched for several seconds as his brother continued to tear the motel room apart looking for the presumably missing tome they had stolen. "Why would I have moved the book, Sam? I went out and look," he held up two take away cups of hot liquid and a white paper bag containing pastries. "I got breakfast. I didn't touch the book."

Sam was defeated. He stopped looking in the duffels and sank onto the edge of the bed. He wiped his hands across his face, holding it over his agape mouth in stunned silence. His eyes were wide open and calculating. Dean heard whispered words come from Sam's mouth but was unable to determine their meaning.

Dean placed the caffeine on the table next to the laptop and turned to sit on his own bed while Sam pulled himself together.

Sam looked over at Dean for a moment before speaking. "I want to go back to the museum."

Dean jerked his head in surprise and in confusion. "What? Why?"

Sam seemed to look at a spot on the wall as Dean thought he could see the cogs turning in his little brother's mop-top head.

"I think…" Sam rose in slow motion without diverting his gaze from the imagined point in space that seemed to hover on the wall separating the room from the bathroom. "I think that maybe the book might be there."

"What are you talking about, Sam?" Dean was incredulous.

"I think the book is… it's a…" He looked at Dean. It was easy to identify that Dean thought Sam had completely lost his mind. Dean didn't even try working the poker face. "It doesn't matter…" Sam sighed. "I think we should go and see if it's there."

Dean reached his hand into the white bag and pulled out a bear claw after a moment's consideration. He used the donut to gesture to his brother. "Okay, but I still think you're completely nuts."

This time, the brothers visited the museum during the day. They walked into the portion of the display that held the faux-study in which they had found the book the previous night. Sam peered into the bookcase where he located it originally and groaned out a profane word under his breath. There were tourists all around them. A mother with three children gabbed with excitement and interest at the children, but stopped mid-rant to stare at the man looming over them nearby. She thinned her lips in disapproval at Sam's utterance. Sam gaped and tried to form apologies to her while she herded her brood on to the next part of the museum.

Dean approached his brother with a clap on the shoulder. His mocking grin widened. "That's one way to frighten off the civilians, Sammy." Dean chuckled as Sam glared.

"It's Sam, Dean." He climbed into the exhibit and fetched the book once more. He waved the book under his brother's nose before sequestering it under his arm inside his coat.

On their way out to the car, Dean finally voiced the question that had settled into his expression. "How did it get back here?"

Sam ducked his head. He appeared embarrassed; a pink tint began to spread over his cheeks and across his nose. "Apparently, this tome is connected to something in the room and will keep returning. I need to figure out how to keep it here…" Sam climbed into the Impala.

Dean stopped mid-step. He just looked at the space that had contained his brother during the announcement.  _What the…?_  Dean yanked the driver's door open and he bent to look inside at his brother who was sitting there reading the stolen tome. "Did you just say we have a possessed artifact?"

Sam blinked before turning to look at his brother. A smile began to dawn on his face. He nodded with enthusiasm. "That is a very apt assessment!" Sam beamed. "Yes, exactly!"

Sam reached down and pulled out his laptop. He began to type like mad once the search engine popped up in the window. Dean straightened to stand beside the car before putting his hands on either side of his face.  _Some days I feel like I should have been an only child._  He gathered his wits about him, took a deep breath, and resigned himself to the fact that their lives were very, very weird. He slid in behind the steering wheel and turned the key to breathe life once again into the big black beast.

They cruised down the festively decorated streets toward their motel. Sam continued working out equations, translations and suppositions toward a solution to keeping the tome with them instead of trans-locating back to its home in the museum.

The Impala slid into the parking space with a smooth deliberate motion. Sam bundled up his belongings and rushed into the motel room. Several moments later, Dean joined him.

"Where'd ya go?" Sam inquired.

Dean waved a newspaper at Sam and sat opposite at the table, paper opened and green eyes scanning the various articles while Sam continued his work in silence. While they worked with the single-minded intensity of the Hunters they were raised to be, a shrill musical interruption dragged them from their research. Dean hastened to pull the cell phone from his pocket and looked at the screen before pressing the phone to his ear.

"Yeah, Bobby?" Dean greeted the man who had been their family's friend since their Dad began Hunting. Dean listened and wrote several notes down inside a black leather- bound notebook. "Yeah… yeah. Well, we could definitely use it… No… thanks, Bobby." With that he shut off the phone and turned to his brother.

Sam tilted his head in inquiry.

"Sam, did it ever occur to you to call Bobby, the friggen font of supernatural knowledge and walking encyclopedia of all things weird and demonic?" Dean asked with a smirk. Sam exhaled a gust of breath and rolled his eyes. He pushed away from the table and gestured for Dean to continue. Sam knew he was dying to gloat over the procurement of the knowledge Sam had laboriously been trying to research.

"Well, I have a reference for the sigils of…" he looked at his notes, "Containment… that we need to make the damn book stay put." Dean rubbed his hands together. "The dimensional doorway is opened using a book that is one of the Necromonican Tomes. Apparently, there are a whole bunch of them and they are really, really cursed." Dean grinned and his eyes glittered in mirth. "Klaatu barada nikto!" He intoned with an ominous catch in his voice and a demonstrative wave of his outstretched hands over the book. He looked down and then looked up to see Sam focused on the book. Dean started laughing and clapped his hands together as he doubled over in amusement. Sam just looked at him in confusion. "Dude. You are so culturally stunted."

Dean gathered his journal and his keys and headed to the door.

"Dean! Where are you going?" Sam asked.

Dean waved his journal at his brother as he walked out to the car. Sam turned to the computer and input the incantation Dean had used, pulling up a movie title and several video references. He sighed and returned to his ACTUAL research.

When Dean returned to the room, he toted with him a steel lockbox and several satchels of spell components. He set up his task on Sam's bed, laying out very smelly herbs and dried vegetation, a cut open gourd and some mason jars filled with questionable liquids.

"Dean, why do you have to do that on my bed?" Sam whined.

"Do you think I wanna sleep on a bed that smells like this?" Dean smirked and returned to his task.

The sun was drooping down closer to the horizon and more people were appearing on the streets. Children in plastic costumes, teens in white scream masks and patient adults walking with groups of firefighters, super heroes and ballerinas marched up and down the sidewalks. Young voices filled the air and strident calls lifted to the seasonal incantation of "trick-or-treat".

Dean Winchester was beginning to recite the incantation to contain a powerful artifact. Sam watched as Dean poured crushed herbs in the gourd and topped it with foul concoction of liquids. There was a humming from the table and Dean paused for a moment to listen. The noise was coming from the book. It was making a keening protest as though it was alive and knew the Winchesters were planning to keep it from performing its true purpose. Sam was alarmed as the volume of the keening noise increased from the tome. Then, the room began to grow cold. The brothers looked at one another. The book began to glow and an icy finger of mist rose to reach for them. The brothers rose to their feet and backed away from the table containing the smelly concoction and the screaming, glowing and "reaching" volume.

"Well, shit!" exclaimed Dean as he reached for his brother, not removing his gaze from the danger before them.

They glanced at one another before rushing to the door, keys in hand.

***SPN***SPN***SPN***SPN***

NOW…

"Where'd he go?" Sam asked through gasping breaths as the Impala came to a rest at the end of the bridge.

"I don't know…" Dean whispered. His wide green eyes searched through the windows of his ride. He looked out one window, then another. The song notes filled the air as Dean's phone rang. "Bobby?"

Dean's swiveled his head left and right still looking for the Horseman as he listened to the old Hunter over the phone. "Yeah, but the damned thing just… stopped. We can't see him…"

Sam continued his panicked inspection of the darkening road behind them.

"Yeah, we just went over a bridge…" Dean stilled and listened. He then burst into laughter. "You're kidding?" Dean used his free hand and pinched his nose before swiping a hand over his face, relaxing into the leather seat of his car. He exhaled as he listened to Bobby on the other line, a smile on his lips, his eyes closed.

He hung up with Bobby and turned to Sam. "The Horseman can't cross water." Dean huffed a chuckle as he began to turn the car toward Tarrytown near Sleepy Hallow.

"What else did he say?" Sam asked.

Dean filled his brother in with the information he had just learned from Bobby. The Necronomicon, depending on the version acquired, can be more trouble than they originally believed. As they drove, they speculated that the version they had was very old, and possibly the one Bobby considered too powerful for the containment spell—it was called the Necronomicon Arcana. Apparently, Bobby had voiced this belief while Dean was reducing his adrenaline after the chase. Dean had barely contained the "no shit" comment due to the fact that he didn't want to alienate the old hunter while he was giving valuable facts.

"Okay," began Sam. "So, what are we going to do? Will the book even be there when we get back to the motel room?"

Dean shrugged and smiled as they drove. He flipped the music on as though, just less than a half hour ago, they weren't being chased by a spectral horseman. They drove through the swirling misty curtain of grey like a large black creature slicing through milky waters. Dean drove slower than he would normally due to poor visibility. The sun had completely disappeared beneath the horizon, though they wouldn't know that for certain since the fog obscured everything.

"So, do you think the  _book_  summoned the Horseman?" Sam asked.

Dean shrugged. He tapped his finger on the steering wheel in time with the Motorhead blaring through the speakers. They drove for nearly half an hour before there was a change in the way the Impala was handling the road—the jarring bumps and rough texture of the road alerted Dean and he turned down the volume on the radio.

"Dude", exclaimed Sam as he leaned forward to peer with intent concentration through the wind shield of the car. "Did you leave the road? It looks like a dirt track. Did we miss a turn? Or…" Sam was looking out the car's windows; the throaty purr of the engine seemed very loud with the grey stillness all around.

Dean concentrated on the black forms of the trees that loomed on the sides of the "road". The grimace on Dean's face as he scanned the way in front of him was all the answer he needed.

"Are we lost?" Sam asked in a whispered voice.

Dean clenched his jaw and stopped the car, putting it in park and turned off the engine. He sat staring as the mist condensed on the windshield like crystal tears, obscuring even the little they were able to see.

The silence that descended lent an eerie other-worldliness to their surroundings. Dean pulled his phone from his pocket to check the time on its face. Nine o'clock. It was pitch dark with no street lights to guide their way. The phone was out of range of any cell towers as the display indicated a complete lack of any signal.

"Shit." Dean's expletive was met with a look of inquiry from his brother. Dean turned the face of his phone to show Sam. Sam grimaced—his reaction agreement to Dean's expletive.

"So, what do we do now?" Sam asked.

Dean turned his body to crane his neck to look out the rear window. He spent several moments to consider his options.

"Well," he began, "we could turn around. Go back to where we left the road." Dean didn't even seem confident of his own pronouncement. He began biting the inside of his bottom lip, a nervous habit he indulges in without conscious thought.

He opened the door with a creak of metal. He stepped onto wet, fallen leaves, his boot squishing in the soft forest loam. The fragrance of moisture and decaying vegetation wafted to his nose. He looked around for black asphalt and, finding none, groaned in frustration.

Dean listened to the clicking settle of the Impala's engine and the tapping drops of water as they fell from the soaking black tree limbs above and crossing the track. He peered with intense focus at the surrounding forest. Sam opened his door and moved from the vehicle to stand next to his brother. They were still and attentive to any changes in the environment. That was when they heard the steady cadence of a heavy form moving with the rhythmic staccato of four hoof beats. Both brothers went into immediate action as they dove for the doors of the Impala. Sam flung himself into the back seat as Dean fired up the engine once again.

Dean began moving the car in reverse with difficulty as it was near impossible to navigate through the rear window speckled with dew. The night was deep black and grey swirling mist obscuring narrow tree trunks. The repeated expletives flowed from the brothers as they tried to find the source of the sudden sounds of horse and rider. They didn't stick around to discover if the rider was human or spirit. When Dean deemed the track safe enough to maneuver the car into a u-turn, he swung the car into drive and barreled through the forest heeding neither the fact that he didn't know where he was or where he was going.

The frantic escape ended them back onto hard pavement and Dean released a sigh in relief. He paid closer attention to the road as they moved through the night.

"Dean." Sam's voice ghosted from behind him. "Dean… DEAN!"

"What?"

Dean turned to glance over his shoulder and discovered the source of Sam's apprehension. Outside the rear window a diffused yellow-orange glow surrounded them in the mist. A menacing shadow within the luminescent vapor, a rider with an enormous steed, matched the Impala's speed. Dean slammed his foot down on the accelerator as the Impala began to pull away from the rider. Dean's eyes darted from time to time to gauge the distance in the side mirrors. He noted with fear that the black mount had red coals of fire for eyes and the burning fires of Hell escaped the steed's mouth and nostrils. The rider gripped the reins of the beast with one gloved hand while the other bore a saber. Dean narrowed his eyes and focused his sole attention on the road. The sign he saw as he sped by left a grin on his face and he pressed his lips together.

Soon, they were approaching a slight bend and they could see a massive form growing larger as they grew closer. Dean turned the car directly for the ominous structure. His knuckles were white from the tension placed on the steering wheel and held the complete focus of his Hunter senses and reflexes on the directing his car to the building. They saw an open maw welcome the black car. Dean slowed the vehicle as it entered the covered bridge. Dean began to breathe normally once more and he turned to check on his brother.

"Sam? You okay?"

Sam was panting and his face was pale. He was splayed against the upholstery of the back seat and his wide eyes targeted his brother. Dean released a loud chuckle at the sight.

 


	6. Now

They needed to get back to the motel… or the museum. They knew they needed to find the Necronomicon Arcana and contain it or destroy it. It seemed that they had been targeted for the Horseman's attention. Neither brother would admit it, but the fact that a book may have summoned a fictitious specter and sent said specter after them scared the shit out of them.

"Well, we can't keep hiding out on bridges." Dean began to move the car forward. The fog hadn't thinned at all, but there were lights on this side of the bridge.

They drove in silence for several moments before buildings and other cars became more frequent in the landscape. People were still out on the sidewalks and Dean looked at the time on his watch. It had only been an hour and a half since the attempt to contain the tome.

He turned into the motel's parking lot and sat behind the steering wheel catching his breath before turning the key to shut off the engine. Sam made no movement to leave either and the two brothers remained in a pocket of stopped time and space within the cabin of the car. Finally, Dean lifted his hand and smoothed it along the dashboard, withdrew the key from the ignition and opened the door to exit the vehicle. Sam followed suit.

When they entered their room, it was exactly as they left it- spell components resting in the cut-opened gourd on the table and Sam's laptop open, but powered down next to it. There were clothes strewn on the floor and bed with haphazard disregard to the room's cleanliness and two drab green duffels at the end of each bed. The only thing missing that they could detect was the Necronomicon.

Dean began making preparations to safeguard the room against supernatural incursions. He painted the warding sigils from their dad's journal against ghosts and demons. He salted the windowsills in the hopes that it would provide them an extra level of security against the legendary Horseman. He'd like to keep his head where it was, thank you very much. Frankly, he'd gone through too much to keep them safe this last year to leave anything to chance.

Dean looked at his brother slumped across the bed with his eyes closed and felt the heavy weight of his own eyelids. He walked to his bed and leaped up to land with his legs crossed at the ankle and the remote controller in his hand. The television blinked to life and Dean wiggled to position his body to be more comfortable against the headboard. He scowled and expressed a sound of disgust. Sam opened his eye to see what was bothering his brother. He couldn't contain the laugh having noticed the Disney version of Ichabod Crane fleeing a flaming pumpkin as the "Legend of Sleepy Hollow" played on the motel TV. Dean turned the set off and through the controller down, crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes.

A few hours later, they were both awakened to the hard pounding on their motel room door. After a quick glance at one another, Dean rose from his bed, his hand gripped behind him around the Colt 1911 at his waistband as he looked through the curtains at the man awaiting entrance. Dean relaxed his tense stance and placed his hand to admit the waiting visitor.

"Hey, Bobby." Dean greeted the old Hunter as he passed by to enter the room.

"I don't know how John managed to keep you idjits alive as long as he did…" was all the response to the greeting they received.

Dean opened his mouth to protest when Bobby produced a heavy book from a large bag he carried with him. The older man placed the heavy volume on the table next to the gourd and carefully turned the leaves of vellum until he found the one he was looking for. The script was spidery and fading in bluish-black ink. The vellum was yellowing and fragile. There were ornate reddish scrolling around the borders and the intricate detail of the illustrations impressive.

"Is this the book you found?" Bobby asked, pointing to an illustration above the latin phrasing.

Dean looked at the drawing and scrutinized all the detail before shaking his head. "No, it has a different looking cover and it may have been thicker…"

Dean turned to his brother. Sam had looked over Dean's shoulder as he was inspecting the illustration. He confirmed Dean's assessment with a quick nod of his head. Bothe brothers looked at Boby who visibly paled. Bobby looked back at the book and began turning the vellum again to find a new illustration very similar to the one they had dismissed.

"This one?" Bobby's voice was just above a whisper and both boys felt the icy finger of apprehension and adrenaline creep up their spines. They looked at the new drawing and immediately recognized the Necronomicon they had earlier taken from the museum. They turned to face Bobby with identical expressions that the old man took as confirmation of his fear.

"It's the Necronomicon Arcana. It's cursed all right… and it's an artifact of tremendous power. It was believed to have been entombed in the Vatican. It needs to be kept on consecrated Holy ground or it can cause all kinds of mischief. And, that's not all." Bobby took a deep breath. "It has a kind of… intelligence. It can act on its own or at the discretion of its owner."

Dean scrubbed his hands down his face and breathed a deep sigh through his nose. His life sucks. "So, what do we do? How do we destroy it?"

Bobby shook his head. "There's no way to destroy it. Well, not unless you're tired of the planet floating around in space, anyway."

"So, the Necronomicon is summoning the Horseman?" Sam asked.

Again, Bobby shook his head. "It may act like the Horseman from the tales, but I think it's not quite that. I think the book may be under the power of someone else who chooses the form the specter takes, but the actual Horseman may be a Ferryman."

Dean looked from Sam to Bobby and back before finally screwing his face into a sarcastic scowl. "All right, I'll bite. What the Hell is a Ferryman?"

Bobby lowered himself into a chair. "Well, like in the old Greek tales, when Hercules went to Hades… Charon, the Ferryman, rowed him across the Styx."

"So, the Horseman is like, what? The Reaper?" Sam asked. A glance at his older brother proved Dean was no longer scowling but his eyes had gone wide and his skin had paled.

Bobby shook his head. "No, reapers are something else. Ferrymen are monsters. They are usually tasked for one thing, bringing people from one place to another. The Ferryman in Greek myths was supposed to bring people into Hades, that's it. They don't reap the souls, just take them to their destinations."

"So, someone thinks we should go to Hell and they sent the Horseman… Ferryman?" Dean demanded. He began pacing and Sam could almost hear him growling. "Why couldn't they just say, 'Hey, you two… Go to Hell'? That's what normal people do!"

The other Hunters took Dean's explosive episode as rhetorical and remained silent.

"Okay," Dean calmed. "We can work through this." He looked at his watch. "It's nearly midnight now. We can get to the museum, get the book, take it to a church for now and then decide what to do next from there."

Sam shrugged his shoulders as an indicator that he was game to the plan and Bobby closed the ancient volume and put it back into its bag.

They drove, again, to the museum. And they disarmed the alarms, again. They walked into to the fake study of Washington Irving, again and Sam reached the bookcase to retrieve the tome. He looked around, through the bookcase and the desk and files scattered throughout the exhibit. He looked up at the other two hunters and they realized just how screwed they were because, they had lost the Arcana… again.

"What now, Genius?" Bobby asked Dean as they approached the Impala.

Dean turned to face Bobby and stopped, mouth open to respond and finger lifted in the air. He just… stopped. Frozen. His eyes widened and the three men heard the shrieking neigh of the spectral horse. They turned to see the nightmarish steed mounted by a cloaked figure. The steed was black but glowed as before with all the red and orange embers of fire in its eyes and mouth. The rider sat motionless and waited. The men eased their way into the car except for Dean.

"Dean!" Sam admonished in a harsh whisper.

The Horseman remained motionless as the horse pawed the asphalt with the clear ring of steel, sparks flying from the point of impact.

"He was a visionary…" A voice from behind Dean spoke with clear and steady voice. Dean was reluctant to remove his watch over the specter, but turned to meet the dark brown eyes of the museum curator.

"Yeah. I bet he was." Dean replied.

"Look at the result of his vision- A creature that would inspire lore for generation after generation. And this wasn't even one of his greatest works!" The curator went on in the awestruck tones of hero-worship.

"Except that it isn't his work that is brought to life here." Dean indicated with a wave of his hand to the Horseman. "You conjured a creature with the Necronomicon that took the form of his creation. It's still just a monster... and it will turn on you as soon as you stop being of use to it."

The curator grinned and lifted the Necronomicon to a more comfortable position in his grasp. "I don't think so. I think that the creature will continue to do my bidding and will eliminate any and all obstacles in the way. It did before when I first learned what the book could do. It chopped the head off that pretentious bastard Rafael Cooper… he was from the Parks Commission. He kept telling the City commission to not allow me to open the museum exhibits on Washinton Irving. He was upset at the insurance cost for olding the kinds of priceless objects I acquired. Said, 'the security was inadequate'. Ha! We showed _him_ 'inadequate'! It eliminated Sebastian Parks. The bastard refused to trade Payton Manning on our fantasy football team! He wasn't even _using_ the guy! How do you have someone like that on your fantasy team and not play him? Plus! He was dating that Melinda woman." The curator squinted his eyes in disgust. "Who roots for the Bucs nowadays anyway?"

 _Seriously?_ Dean looked at the mad, balding little man. _I mean, seriously?_

Dean heard the creak of metal on metal and kept the man engaged. The crazy curator continued his mad rant.

"Carregan Stoddard! What an ass! I don't know how many times I told him to keep that damn dachshund out of my yard! Well, I got him and his little dog, too!" The crazy guy stopped then. He considered his words a moment and started laughing hysterically.

Dean was sure this guy wasn't salvageable at this point so it was with relief that he saw Sam approaching the crazy little dude from behind. He lifted the tire iron and with a sure downward stroke, knocked the guy to the ground. The resultant shriek of the horse and the shrill moan of the horseman caused all the hunters to look once more at the Ferryman and the Hell-horse. The grey mist enshrouded the forms of the creatures and they faded in the sooty orange glow.

Bobby stooped to lift the Necronomicon and swept it into a bag that was similar to the one that held the ancient volume he had shown them earlier. The book hissed at him but didn't put up a real fight.

"Witching hour is gone." Bobby said.

Dean looked at his watch. It was 1:00 in the morning. November 1. All Saint's Day.

They packed up the crazy curator, the book and the tire iron and drove the Impala to the closest Catholic Church. Bobby talked them into driving all the way to the Bronx instead. He knew a priest who "knew" there and they could leave the book there as well as the crazy curator, whose ID claimed him as Henry Selhkie.

All three men decided by unanimous consent that they would head west as soon as Father O'Reilly had claimed possession of the artifact and the lunatic. They were sitting in the motel room eating sandwiches for lunch when Bobby got a thoughtful look on his face.

"You know, I get it.."

"Get what?" Sam and Dean replied simultaneously.

Bobby smiled. "If the guy wasn't even using Manning but wouldn't trade him…. I guess I'd wanna gank him, too."

A moment of awkward silence was followed by both Winchester brothers throwing wadded up wrappers at the older hunter.

"And dachshunds don't even count as dogs!" Bobby said through the laughter. Sam groaned and Dean pelted him with balled up t-shirts.

Bobby sniffed and crinkled his nose. "When do you idjits do your laundry, once in a blue moon?" He reached into his pocket and extricated a roll of quarters and put it on the table. He waved at the guys as he walked out the door to his Camaro.

Dean looked at his brother a moment. "What's next?" He asked.

Sam lifted a shirt to his face. "Apparently, laundry."

The End


End file.
